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.