XIII.
But there was silence one bright, golden day,
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone,
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,
And from the fields the peasant’s voice was gone;
And the red grapes untrodden strew’d the ground;
And the free flocks, untended, roam’d around.
Where was the pastor?—where the pipe’s wild tone?
Music and mirth were hush’d the hills among,
While to the city’s gates each hamlet pour’d its throng.