Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes’ dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman—but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride.
Vainly they fell—that martyr host—
All, save the land’s high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,