It swells in its own dark course, till morning's early beam. Then comes it white from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death is tumbling there. The dark woods echo round, and lighten at his steel.
Bards take the trembling harps.
Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A distant sun-beam marks the hill. The dusky waves of the blast fly over the fields of grass. The king returns with all his fame. It roared, and Fingal overcame.