Fragments Of Ancient Poetry | Page 7

on the
western wave.
VINVELA.
Then thou art gone, O Shilric!
and I am alone on the hill. The
deer
are seen on the brow; void of
fear they graze along. No more they

dread the wind; no more the rustling
tree. The hunter is far removed;

he is in the field of graves. Strangers!
sons of the waves! spare my

lovely Shilric.
SHILRIC.
If fall I must in the field, raise high
my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones,
and
heaped-up earth, shall murk me to future
times. When the
hunter shall sit by
the mound, and produce his food at
noon, "some
warrior rests here," he
will say; and my fame shall live in his
praise.
Remember me, Vinvela, when
low on earth I lie!
VINVELA.
Yes!--I will remember thee--indeed
my Shilric will fall. What shall I
do,
my love! when thou art gone for ever?
Through these hills I will
go at noon: O
will go through the silent heath. There
I will see
where often thou sattest returning
from the chace. Indeed, my Shilric

will fall; but I will remember
him.
II
I sit by the mossy fountain; on the
top of the hill of winds. One tree is

rustling above me. Dark waves roll
over the heath. The lake is
troubled
below. The deer descend from the
hill. No hunter at a
distance is seen;
no whistling cow-herd is nigh. It is
mid-day: but
all is silent. Sad are my
thoughts as I sit alone. Didst thou
but
appear, O my love, a wanderer on
the heath! thy hair floating on the

wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving
on the sight; thine eyes full

of tears
for thy friends, whom the mist of the
hill had concealed!
Thee I would comfort,
my love, and bring thee to thy
father's house.
But is it she that there appears, like
a beam of light on the heath?
bright
as the moon in autumn, as the sun in
a summer-storm?--She
speaks: but
how weak her voice! like the breeze
in the reeds of the
pool. Hark!
Returnest thou safe from the war?
"Where are thy friends, my love? I

heard of thy death on the hill; I heard
and mourned thee, Shilric!"
Yes, my fair, I return; but I alone
of my race. Thou shalt see them no

more: their graves I raised on the plain.
But why art thou on the
desert hill?
why on the heath, alone?
Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the
winter-house. With grief for thee I

expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.
She fleets, she sails away; as grey
mist before the wind!--and, wilt
thou
not stay, my love? Stay and behold
my tears? fair thou
appearest, my love!
fair thou wast, when alive!
By the mossy fountain I will sit; on
the top of the hill of winds. When

mid-day is silent around, converse, O
my love, with me! come on
the wings
of the gale! on the blast of the mountain,
come! Let me
hear thy voice, as
thou passest, when mid-day is silent around.
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.
IV
CONNAL, CRIMORA,
CRIMORA.
Who cometh from the hill, like
a cloud tinged with the beam
of the
west? Whose voice is that, loud
as the wind, but pleasant as the harp
of
Carryl? It is my love in the light of
steel; but sad is his darkened

brow.
Live the mighty race of Fingal? or
what disturbs