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XLVIII.

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would roam;
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream,
And make the rocky fastnesses her home.
And in the rushing of the mountain-flood,
In the wild eagle's solitary cry,
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood,
There is a voice of stern sublimity,
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood

Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude.

XLIX.

But from those hills the radiance of her smile
Hath vanish'd long, her step hath fled afar;
O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused awhile,^22[1]
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain-war;
And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there,
Still brightest midst privation: o'er distress
It cast romantic splendour, and despair
But fann'd that beacon of the wilderness;
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell,

Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell.