On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear—
And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang,—vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air,