He raises
the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand
meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a
blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her
fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so
soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness
dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the
breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It
comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is
mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy
rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises
yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The
maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze,
mournest there!'
THE CAVE.
1 The wind is up, the field is bare,
Some hermit lead me to his cell,
Where Contemplation, lonely fair,
With blessed content has chose to dwell.
2 Behold! it opens to my sight,
Dark in the rock, beside the flood;
Dry fern around obstructs the light;
The winds above it move the wood.
3 Reflected in the lake, I see
The downward mountains and the skies,
The flying bird, the waving tree,
The goats that on the hill arise.
4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow;
The slow-paced fowler walks the heath;
A freckled pointer scours the brow;
A musing shepherd stands beneath.
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