LI.

Now is that strife a tale of vanish’d days,

With mightier things forgotten soon to lie;

Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays,

Deeds less adventurous, energies less high.

And the dread struggle’s fearful memory still

O’er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws;

Sheds darker shadows o’er the frowning hill,

More solemn quiet o’er the glen’s repose;

Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan,

And the hoarse river’s voice a murmur not its own.