Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 17 1826.pdf/3



! thou hast met the sun's last smile From the haunted hills of Rome; By many a bright Egean isle Thou hast seen the billows foam:

From the silence of the Pyramid Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow Of the Nile, that with his mantle hid The ancient realm below:

Thy heart hath burn'd as shepherds sang Some wild and warlike strain, Where the Moorish horn once proudly rang Through the pealing hills of Spain:

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams Thou hast heard the laurels moan, With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the hamlet-vales Of the Alpine mountains old, If thou wouldst hear immortal tales, By the wind's deep whispers told!

Go, if thou lov'st the soil to tread Where man hath bravely striven, And life like incense hath been shed, An offering unto Heaven!

For o'er the snows and round the pines Hath swept a noble flood, The nurture of the peasant's vines Hath been the martyr's blood.

A spirit, stronger than the sword, And loftier than Despair, Through all th' heroic region pour'd,    Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep Of long-enduring Faith, And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death!

Ask of the peasant where his sires For Truth and Freedom bled, Ask, where were lit the torturing fires Where lay the holy dead?

And he will tell thee all around, On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois' foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown.

Go, when the sabbath-bell is heard Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirr'd    To gladness by the note;