Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/40

Far away from far portals of the pass.
Lower, a surge of huge dun purple rock,
Tumultuously contorted, rolls a rude
And shadowy chaos interposed between
Dark peaks and me: Night's ever-deepening gloom
Engulfs the gorges: all is mighty Music,
Phantasmal symphony of ghostly Form,
A visionary Chorus with no sound!

Stern-visaged Isle! upon thy rocky breast
Two sons were nurtured, heritors of fame.
The one drew pride and ruin from thy veins,
Towering portentous, terrible, alone,
A scourge of God; Napoleon drew power
To desolate the world; while Paoli
Drank from dark fountains of thy resolute blood
The patriot's unshamed integrity.

Behold! I stand within a place of graves:
Low wooden-crosses o'er the lonely dead.
Within the wondrous amphitheatre
Of mountains overshadowing they rest;
Watched, warded, in those awful arms they lie.
Ah! Nature here hath roused herself to robe
Her oft unheeded royalty in robes
Of godlike splendour, that our eyes may see;
Hath sounded, as with trumpet-blast of doom,
That our dull ears may slumber not, but hear!