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And scattered firs and birch-trees
grow
On the summit, here and there -
Lonely and joylessly they wave,
Like an old man's thin grey hair.
But not to nature's hand it owes
Its mournfulness alone,
For vague tradition gives the spot
A horror of its own.
The boatman doffs his cap beneath
Its dark o'er-hanging shade,
And whispers low its Gaelic name, -
"Rock - of the BETRAYED!."
And when the wind, which never curls
That pool, goes sweeping by,
Bending the firs and birchen trees
With a low and moaning sigh, -
He'll tell you that the sound which comes
So strange, and faint, and dim,
Is only heard at one set hour,
And called "The Lady's Hymn."
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