We mark the graves of dead heroes by
'Their long grass waving in the wind,'
and we move onwards 'in the robe of the misty glen' past
'Branches and brown tufts of grass
Which tremble and whistle in the breeze.'
But when the full Atlantic gale sweeps over the land, and the rain-clouds rush in swift procession across the half-hidden hills, the moaning and shrieking of the storm come like sounds from another world. We seem to hear the tread, and almost to see the forms, of the ghosts of the Ossianic heroes,
'Chasing spectre-boars of mist
On wings of great winds on the cairn.
When bursts the cloud in Cona of the glens,
A thousand spirits wildly shriek