night comes on the hill: when the wind
is up on the heath; my ghost shall stand
in the wind, and mourn the death of
my friends. The hunter shall hear
from his booth. He shall fear, but
love my voice. For sweet shall my voice
be for my friends; for pleasant were
they both to me.



XI

Sad! I am sad indeed: nor small my
cause of woe!--Kirmor, thou hast
lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter
of beauty. Connar the valiant lives;
and Annir the fairest of maids. The
boughs of thy family flourish, O Kirmor!
but Armyn is the last of his
race.

Rise, winds of autumn, rise; blow
upon the dark heath! streams of the
mountains, roar! howl, ye tempests,
in the trees! walk through broken
clouds, O moon! show by intervals thy
pale face! bring to my mind that sad
night, when all my children fell; when
Arindel the mighty fell; when Daura