"That wind is from the North, I know it well; No other breeze could have so wild a swell. Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell, The faintly dies, And softly sighs, And moans and murmurs mournfully. I know its language; thus is speaks to me -- 'I have passed over thy own mountains dear, Thy northern mountains -- and they still are free, Still lonely, wild, majestic, bleak and drear, And stern and lovely, as they used to be When thou, a young enthusiast, As wild and free as they, O'er…