The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day—
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone
Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain,
Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.
Those days are past—the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood;
And may that awful record, as of yore,