A wakener of heroes in every glen,
With a glance inspired which no grief could tame,
Bearing on hope like a torch’s flame;
While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs.
But his dreams were fill’d by a haunting tone,
Sad as a sleeping infant’s moan;
And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye,
Which look’d on it—oh! how beseechingly!
And there floated past him a fragile form,