FRAGMENT I.

SHIRLIC, VINVEL A.

MY

VIN VEL A.

Y Love is a Son of the Hill. He purfues the flying Deer. His gray Dogs are panting around him; his Bow-ftring founds in the Wind. Whether by the Fount of the Rock, or by the Stream of the Mountain thou lieft; when the Rufhes are nodding with the Wind, and the Mist is flying over thee, let me approach my Love unperceived, and see him from the Rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged Oak of Branno; thou wert returning tall from the Chace; the fairest among thy Friends.

SHIRLIC.

What Voice is that I hear? That Voice like the Summer-wind. I fit not by the nodding Rushes ; I hear not the Fount of the Rock. Afar, Vinvela, afar I go to the Wars of Fingal. My Dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the Hill. No more from on high I fee thee, fair-moving by the Stream

of

of the Plain; bright as the Bow of Heaven; as the Moon on the western Wave.

VINVEL A.

Then thou art gone, O Shilric! and I am alone on the Hill. The Deer are feen on the Brow; void of Fear they graze along. No more they dread the Wind; no more the ruftling Tree. The Hunter is far removed; he is in the Field of Graves. Strangers! Sons of the Waves! fpare my lovely Shilric.

SHILRIC.

If fall I must in the Field, raife high my Grave, Vinvela. Grey Stones, and heaped-up Earth, shall mark me to future Times. When the Hunter shall fit by the Mound, and produce his Food at Noon, "Some Warrior refts here," he will fay; and my Fame fhall live in his Praife. Remember me, Vinvela, when low on Earth I lie!

VIN VELA.

Yes! I will remember thee-indeed my Shilric will fall. What fhall I do, my Love! when thou art gone for ever! Through thefe Hills I will go at Noon: I will go through the filent Heath. There I will fee the Place of thy Reft, returning from the Chace. Indeed, my Shilric will fall; but I will remember him.

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FRAG

FRAGMENT II.

fit by the mofly Fountain; on the Top of the Hill of Winds. One Tree is ruftling above me. Dark Waves roll over the Heath. The Lake is troubled below. The Deer defcend from the Hill. No Hunter at a Distance is feen; no whiftling Cowherd is nigh. It is Mid-day: But all is filent. Sad are my Thoughts alone. Didft thou but appear, O my Love, a Wanderer on the Heath! Thy Hair floating on the Wind behind thee; thy Bofom heaving on the Sight; thine Eyes full of Tears for thy Friends, whom the midft of the Hill had concealed! Thee I would comfort, my Love, and bring thee to thy Father's House.

But it is she that there appears, like a Beam of Light on the Heath? Bright as the Moon in Autumn, as the Sun in a Summer-ftori, comeft thou, lovely Maid, over Rocks, over Mountains to me?-She fpeaks: but how weak her Voice! like the Breeze in the Reeds of the Pool. Hark!

Returneft thou fafe from the War; Where are thy Friends, my Love? I heard of thy Death on the Hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric!

Yes, my Fair, I return; but I alone of my Race. Thou shalt fee them no more: Their Graves I raifed on the Plain. But why art thou on the defert Hill? why on the Heath, alone?

Alone

Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the WinterHouse. With Grief for thee I expired. Shilric, I am Pale in the Tomb.

She fleets, the fails away; as grey Mist before the Wind!-and, wilt thou not stay, my Love? Stay and behold my Tears? Fair thou appeareft, my Love! fair thou waft, when alive!

By the mofly Fountain I will fit; on the Top of the Hill of Winds. When Mid-day is filent around, converfe, O my Love, with me! come on the Wings of the Gale! on the Blaft of the Mountain, come! Let me hear thy Voice, as thou paffeft, when Mid-day is filent around.

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FRAGMENT III.

VENING is grey on the Hills. The North Wind refounds through the Woods. White Clouds rife on the Sky: the thin-wavering Snow defcends. The River howls afar, along its winding Courfe. Sad, by a hollow Rock, the grey-hair'd Carryl fat. Dry Fern waves over his Head; his Seat is in an aged Birch. Clear to the roaring Winds he lifts his Voice of Woe.

Toffed on the wavy Ocean is He, the Hope of the Ifles; Malcolm, the Support of the Poor; Foe to the Proud in Arms! Why haft thou left us behind?

Why

Why live we to mourn thy Fate? We might have heard, with thee, the Voice of the Deep; have feen the oozy Rock.

Sad on the fea-beat Shore thy Spouse looketh for thy Return. The Time of thy Promise is come; the Night is gathering around. But no white Sail is on the Sea; no Voice but the bluftering Winds. Low is the Soul of the War; Wet are the Locks of Youth! By the Foot of fome Rock thou lieft; washed by the Waves as they come. Why, ye Winds, did ye bear him on the Defert Rock? Why, ye Waves, did ye roll over him?

But, Oh! What Voice is that? Who rides on that Meteor of Fire! Green are his airy Limbs. It is he! it is the Ghoft of Malcolm ! -Reft, lovely Soul, reft on the Rock; and let me hear thy Voice -He is gone, like a Dream of the Night. I fee him through the Trees. Daughter of Reynold! he is gone. Thy Spouse shall return no more. No more hall his Hounds come from the Hill, Forerunners of their Mafter. No more from the diftant Rock shall his Voice greet thine Ear. Silent is he in the Deep, unhappy Daughter of Reynold.

I will fit by the Stream of the Plain. Ye Rocks! hang over my Head. Hear my Voice, ye Trees! as ye bend on the fhaggy Hill. My Voice shall preferve the Praise of him, the Hope of the Ifles.

VOL. II.

K

FRAG