When the far-echoing battle-horn made known
That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan
Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear;
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone,
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career,
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.
The shrine hath sunk!—but thou unchanged art there!
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams!
Unchanged—and rising through the radiant air,
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams,