the winds of the east
prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since I have seen, nor
Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell in Balclutha,
for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came
through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora: she
was like the new moon, seen through the gathered mist,
when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and the world
is silent and dark. 'Raise, ye bards,' said the mighty
Fingal, 'the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost,
with your songs, to our hills, that she may rest with
the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days, the
delight of heroes of old.'...

"The night passed away in song; morning returned in
joy. The mountains showed their grey heads; the blue
face of ocean smiled. The white wave is seen tumbling
round the distant rock; a mist rose slowly from the
lake. It came in the figure of an aged man along the
silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in steps,
for a ghost supported it in mid air. It came towards
Selma's hall, and dissolved in a shower of blood.

"The king alone beheld the sight; he foresaw the death
of the people....

"'My spirit, Connal, is on my hills: my corse on the
sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, nor
find his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the
blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of mist!
Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death: it
hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The sons of green
Erin must fall. Remove from the field of ghosts.' Like
the darkened moon, he retired in the midst of the
whistling blast. 'Stay,' said the mighty Connal,
'stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by that beam of heaven,
son of the windy Cromla! What cave is thy lonely
house? What green-headed hill the place of thy repose?
Shall we not hear thee in the storm? in the noise of
the mountain stream? when the feeble sons of the wind
come forth, and, scarcely seen, pass over the
desert.'...

"'Sons of Cona!' Fingal cried aloud, 'stop the hand of
death. Mighty was he that is low; much is he mourned
in Sora! The stranger will come towards his hill, and
wonder why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O
stranger! The joy of his house is ceased. Listen to
the sound of his woods. Perhaps the ghost is murmuring