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! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands; he was terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice, sons of my love! But alas! silent for ever! Cold are their breasts 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? No feeble voice is on the wind: no answer half-drowned in the storms of the hill.

they are silent;

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 sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the wind is upon 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.

XI.

SAD! I am sad indeed; nor small my cause of woe! Kirmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Connar the valiant lives; and Annir, the fairest of maids. The

boughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor! but Armyn is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, 0 Daura! and deep thy sleep in the tomb. When shalt thou awake with thy songs? with all thy voice of music?

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow upon the dark heath! streams of the mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests, in the top of the oak! walk through broken clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy pale face; bring to my mind that sad night, when all my children fell; when Arindel the mighty fell; when Daura the lovely failed; when all my children died.

Daura, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on the hills of Jura; white as the driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift in the field: thy look was like mist on the wave; thy shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armor, renowned in war, came, and sought Daura's love; he was not long denied; fair was the hope of their friends.

Earch, son of Odgal, repined; for his brother was slain by Armor. He came disguised like the son of the sea: Fair was his skiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armyn! a rock not distant in the sea, bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There Armor waiteth for Daura. I came to fetch his love. Come, fair daughter of Armyn!

She went; and she called on Armor. Nought answered but the son of the rock. Armor, my love! my love! why tormentest thou me with fear? hear, son of Ardnart, hear it is Daura who calleth thee! Earch the traitor filed laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice, and cried for her brother and her father. Arindel! Armyn! none to relieve your Daura !

Her voice came over the sea. Arindel, my son, descended from the hill; rough in the spoils of the chace. His arrows rattled by his side; his bow was in his hand; five dark grey dogs attended his steps. He saw fierce Earch on the shore;

he seized, and bound him to an oak. Thick fly the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the wind with his groans.

Arindel ascends the surgy deep in his boat, to bring Daura to the land. Armor came in his wrath, and let fly the greyfeathered shaft. It sung; it sunk in thy heart, O Arindel, my son! for Earch the traitor thou diedst. The oar is stopt at once; he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood! The boat is broken in twain by the waves. Armor plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from the hill comes over the waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone, on the sea-rock, my daughter was heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her cries; nor could her father relieve her. All night I stood on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. Loud was the wind; and the rain beat hard on the side of the mountain. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief she expired. And left thee, Armyn, alone: gone is my strength in the war, and fallen my pride among women.

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. Half-viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father,

THE wind and the rain are over: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven.

Red through the

Over the green hills flies the

stony vale comes down the

inconstant sun. 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 shall 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 roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as a 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 of the Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no

mighty Morar.

the eye

grave

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 splendour of thy steel. son. But the song shall preserve thy name. hear of thee; they shall hear of the fallen Morar.

Thou hast left no
Future times shall

XIII. 9

RAISE high the stones; collect the earth: preserve the name of Fear-comhraic. Blow, winds, from all your hills; sigh on the grave of Muirnin.

The dark rock hangs, with all its wood, above the calm dwelling of the heroes.

The sea, with its foam-headed billow, murmurs at their side.

Not inserted in the first edition of the Fragments.