92
A NIGHT AMONG THE MOUTAINS.
Beneath the green-sward, and whose march to fame
Has left upon their tombs, not even a name.
Has left upon their tombs, not even a name.
Around me, flashing in the moon's large light,
I see the sharp sword glitter; and the flight
Of arrows from the shadow of each tree
Telleth that death asserts his mastery.
The air is teeming with the things forgot,
The themes of buried ages; every spot
Of earth is hallowed ground; dyed with the blood
Of martyrs—martyrs they, who bravely stood,
And battled for their country. They who died,
Beside the stream, or on the green hill-side,
Where'er death met them, sanctified the earth
On which they died, and that which gave them birth!
I see the sharp sword glitter; and the flight
Of arrows from the shadow of each tree
Telleth that death asserts his mastery.
The air is teeming with the things forgot,
The themes of buried ages; every spot
Of earth is hallowed ground; dyed with the blood
Of martyrs—martyrs they, who bravely stood,
And battled for their country. They who died,
Beside the stream, or on the green hill-side,
Where'er death met them, sanctified the earth
On which they died, and that which gave them birth!
Hark! 'tis the sound of music! I will stand
And list a moment to the forest-band,
Striking its thousand strings of melody,
Solemnly musical from each green tree!
The sound of sweet-voiced waters sendeth far
Its song melodiously—from every star
A spirit looks, until my bosom thrills
"With their unspeakable love! Harp of the hills!
Thou of the many strings, thy tones are full
Of mournful feeling; strangely beautiful
And list a moment to the forest-band,
Striking its thousand strings of melody,
Solemnly musical from each green tree!
The sound of sweet-voiced waters sendeth far
Its song melodiously—from every star
A spirit looks, until my bosom thrills
"With their unspeakable love! Harp of the hills!
Thou of the many strings, thy tones are full
Of mournful feeling; strangely beautiful
