Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse,
To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.
Yet live there still who[164] can remember well,
How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew,
Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell,
And solitary heath, the signal knew;
And fast the faithful clan around him drew,
What time[165] the warning note was keenly wound,
What time aloft their kindred banner flew,
While clamorous war pipes yell’d the gathering sound,