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But now the passionate lament,Which from the crowd on shore was sent,The cries which broke from old and youngIn Gaelic, or the English tongue,Are stifled—all is still.
And quickly with a silent crewA Boat is ready to pursue;And from the shore their course they take,And swiftly down the running LakeThey follow the blind Boy.
With sound the least that can be madeThey follow, more and more afraid,More cautious as they draw more near;But in his darkness he can hear,And guesses their intent.
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