The feverish energies of passion close,
And his heart sinks in desolate repose,
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less
From its own deep and utter loneliness.
There is a sound of voices on the air,
A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare,
Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]—there, on high,
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky,
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke,
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke.