Fragments Of Ancient Poetry, Fragment X

It is night; and I am alone, forlorn     on the hill of storms. The wind is     heard in the mountain. The torrent     shrieks down the rock. No hut receives     me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of     winds.     Rise, moon! from behind thy     clouds; stars of the night, appear!     Lead me, some light, to the place where     my love rests from the toil of the chase!     his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs     panting around him. But here I must     sit alone, by the rock of the mossy     stream. The stream and the wind     roar; nor can I hear the voice of my     love.     Why delayeth my Shalgar, why the     son of the hill, his promise? Here is     the rock; and the tree; and here the     roaring stream. Thou promisedst with     night to be here. Ah! whither is my     Shalgar gone? With thee I would fly     my father; with thee, my brother of     pride. Our race have long been foes;     but we are not foes, O Shalgar!     Cease a little while, O wind! stream,     be thou silent a while! let my voice be     heard over the heath; let my wanderer     hear me. Shalgar! it is I who call. Here     is the tree, and the rock. Shalgar, my     love! I am here. Why delayest thou     thy coming? Alas! no answer.     Lo! the moon appeareth. The     flood is bright in the vale. The rocks     are grey on the face of the hill. But     I see him not on the brow; his dogs     before him tell not that he is coming.     Here I must sit alone.     But who are these that lie beyond     me on the heath? Are they my love     and my brother?--Speak to me, O my     friends! they answer not. My soul is     tormented with fears.--Ah! they are     dead. Their swords are red from the     fight. O my brother! my brother!     why hast thou slain my Shalgar? why,     O Shalgar! hast thou slain my brother?     Dear were ye both to me! speak to me;     hear my voice, sons of my love! But     alas! they are silent; silent for ever!     Cold are their breast of clay!     Oh! from the rock of the hill;     from the top of the mountain of winds,     speak ye ghosts of the dead! speak,     and I will not be afraid.--Whither     are ye gone to rest? In what cave of     the hill shall I find you?     I sit in my grief. I wait for morning     in my tears. Rear the tomb, ye     friends of the dead; but close it not     till I come. My life flieth away like a     dream: why should I stay behind?     Here shall I rest with my friends by the     stream of the founding rock. When     night comes on the hill: when the wind     is up on the heath; my ghost shall stand     in the wind, and mourn the death of     my friends. The hunter shall hear     from his booth. He shall fear, but     love my voice. For sweet shall my voice     be for my friends; for pleasant were     they both to me.