[ 55 ]
XII.
RYNO, ALPIN.
Ryno.
THE wind and the rain are over: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hill 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 the song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of the song, why alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood; as a wave on the lonely shore?
Alpin.
