Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country’s noble slain—
Say to him—Saxon, think not all is won.
“Thou hast laid low the warrior’s head,
The minstrel’s chainless hand:
Dreamer! that numberest with the dead
The burning spirit of the mountain-land!
“Think’st thou, because the song hath ceased,
The soul of song is flown?
Think’st thou it woke to crown the feast,