And hurls, as from a funeral pyre,
A glare that strikes the mountain’s head;
5. And writes on low-hung clouds its lines
Of cyphered flame, with hurrying hand;
And flings amid the topmost pines
That crown the steep, a burning brand.
6. Make answer, Year, for all thy dead,
Who found not rest in hallowed earth;
The widowed wife, the father fled,
The babe age-stricken from his birth