III. [Evening is grey on the hills]
Evening is grey on the hills.
Evening is grey on the hills. The north wind resounds
through the woods. White clouds rise on the sky: the thin-wavering
snow descends. The river howls afar, along its
winding course. Sad, by a hollow rock, the grey-haired 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 but 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.