Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment III

Evening is grey on the hills. The     north wind resounds through the     woods. White clouds rise on the sky: the     trembling snow descends. 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 isles; 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 sail is     on the sea; no voice is heard except     the blustering winds. Low is the soul     of the war! Wet are the locks of youth!     By the foot of some 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! Green     are his airy limbs. It is he! it is the     ghost of Malcolm!--Rest, lovely soul,     rest 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     voice greet thine ear. Silent is he in     the deep, unhappy daughter of Reynold!     I will sit by the stream of the plain.     Ye rocks! hang over my head. Hear     my voice, ye trees! as ye bend on the     shaggy hill. My voice shall preserve     the praise of him, the hope of the isles.