Of the crown’d hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms.
Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep,
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season’s breath?
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest,
Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast?
Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been
A sound of battle midst the silent scene
Where now the flocks repose?—did the scythed car