University of Virginia Library

Young Farquhar ceased, and rising slow,
Doffed his plumed bonnet, wiped his brow,
And flushed with conscious dignity,
Cast o'er the crowd his falcon eye,
And found them all in silence deep,
As listening for the tempest sweep;
So well his tale of Avin's seer
Suited the rigour of the year;
So high his strain, so bold his lyre,
So fraught with rays of Celtic fire,
They almost weened each hum that past
The Spirit of the northern blast.