should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill when the loud winds arise my ghost shall stand in the blast, 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: pleasant were her friends to Colma.

"Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our
tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his
harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the
soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow
house: their voice had ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from
the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill:
their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of
mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the
sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister's eyes
were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of
car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in
the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a
cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of morning rose!

"Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon of day. The
clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant
sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet
are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the
voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head
of age: red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the
silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on
the lonely shore?

"Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead my voice for those that have
passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale.
But thou shalt fall like Morar: the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The
hills shall know thee no more: thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert: terrible as a meteor
of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle as lightning in
the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant
hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames of thy
wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow.
Thy face was like the