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The green hills are covered with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king; the red eyes of his fear are sad.
She fell like a wreath of snow which slides from the rocks of Ronan. Who knows anything now about Catholda, and Corban Cargloss, and Golchossa and Cairbar of the gloomy brow? For some time the poems held their own, retained their popularity; their partisans fought with their opponents for every inch of ground, even though discovery was mining them.
In this landscape you behold all the luxury of the South, its abundant vegetation, its burning sky, the smiling aspect of all nature, discoverable even in the plants themselves; and that other picture which forms a contrast with this, is the son of Cairbar asleep upon the tomb of his father.
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