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
si
lent
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
roe
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
memo
rial
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
Mor
glan
.
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
.