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!