A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior’s dying sigh!
A gloom fell o’er their way!
’Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
The air was fill’d with a mightier sway—
But on the spearmen pass’d!