The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime,
Than the vintage music, rung—
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
—’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
Midst the ancient rocks was blown,