marks the path. The distant dog is howling from the
hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain moss:
the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his
branchy horns. She starts, but lies again. The roe is
in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock's head is
beneath his wing. No beast nor bird is abroad, but the
owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree; he in
a cloud on the hill. Dark, panting, trembling, sad,
the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs,
through thorns he goes, along the gurgling mill. He
fears the rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of
night. The old tree groans to the blast; the falling
branch resounds. The wind drives the weathered burs,
clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread
of a ghost! He trembles amidst the night. Dark,
dusky, howling night, cloudy, windy, and full of
ghosts! The dead are abroad! My friends, receive me
from the night."

The second bard says:

"The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of
the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows
flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts
the ford. Hark! that shriek! He dies! The storm drives
the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow.
They tremble as drives the shower, beside the
mouldering bank. The hunter starts from sleep, in his
lonely hut; he wakes, the fire decayed. His wet dogs
smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud
roar two mountain streams, which meet beside his
booth. Sad on the side of the hill the wandering
shepherd sits. The tree resounds beside him. The
stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising
moon to guide him to his home. Ghosts ride on the
storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the
squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds. The
rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar and
windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the
starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is
gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal. Receive
me, my friends, from night."

The third bard sings:

"The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles
through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from
their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds
divided, fly over the sky, and sh