For in the rocky strait beneath,
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heap’d high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.
“They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come:
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”