Classic Poem

Song of the Third Bard .

The wind still sounds along the glens,
The mountains feel the shock;
It whistles thro' the grass that bends
Depending from the rock:
The fir-trees from their station fall,
The turfy hut, is torn;
The thin clouds fly before the squall,
The stars' clear orbits burn.
The meteor, harbinger of death,
Flies, sparkling, thro the air!
On yonder hill, it rests; — the heath
And blasted fern, appear:
The rock, and fallen oak, I see,
Illumined by its beam.
Who, shrowded stands, beneath the tree,
That trembles o'er the stream?
The waves dark-tumble on the lake
And lash its rocky side:
The oars, the brimful boat forsake,
And float adown the tide.
Beneath an algid rock, reclined,
A lovelorn maiden mourns;
She views the rolling stream, the wind —
Her woe-fraught plaint returns:
She mourns her ling'ring love's delay,
And strains her weary sight;
His bark she saw, when twilight grey
Led on the dusky night.
" Is this , his broken boat that lies,
" Upon the ruthless shore?
" Are these his groans, that fill the skies! "
Alas! he comes no more!

Hark! the hail, it rattles round,
Descends the flaky snow,
With white the top-most hills are crown'd,
The winds are hush'd, and low:
Cold, glum and various is the air,
The sky with clouds bedight;
I, shivering, to the hall repair:
Receive me from the night.