We stood on Morven ere the morning broke:
Night lingered on the hills; a single star
Sent tremulously down on Lochnagar
A smile that wandered o'er his misty cloak
And touched his heart at last: sullen he woke
And bared his bosom, seamed with rent and scar—
The silent wounds of many a Winter's war.
The mist rolled upwards: Sudden a mountain oak,
That in its sunless hollow near us grew,
Through all its leaves shook in the morning air;
The mist still rose, the Dee rolled into view;
The mist still rose, and then, a vision rare
As the first rays of morning smote it through,
And ringed with gold old Morven's forehead bare!