Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem The chosen haunts where Freedom’s foot would roam; She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, And make the rocky fastnesses her home. And in the rushing of the mountain flood, In the wild eagle’s solitary cry, In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood, There is a voice of stern sublimity, That swells her spirit to a loftier mood Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. XLIX. But from those hills the radiance of her smile Hath vanish’d long, her step hath fled afar; O’er Suli’s frowning rocks she paused a while,[33] Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war. And brightly glow’d her ardent spirit there, Still brightest midst privation: o’er distress It cast romantic splendour, and despair But fann’d that beacon of the wilderness; And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell. L. Dark children of the hills! ’twas then ye wrought Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand; As midst your craggy citadels ye fought, And women mingled with your warrior band. Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood[34] High o’er the river’s darkly-rolling wave, And hurl’d, in dread delirium, to the flood Her free-born infant, ne’er to be a slave. For all was lost--all, save the power to die The wild indignant death of savage liberty. LI. Now is that strife a tale of vanish’d days, With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. And the dread struggle’s fearful memory still O’er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws; Sheds darker shadows o’er the frowning hill, More solemn quiet o’er the glen’s repose; Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, And the hoarse river’s voice a murmur not its own. LII. For stillness now--the stillness of the dead-- Hath wrapt that conflict’s lone and awful scene; And man’s forsaken homes, in ruin spread, Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. And there, o’er wastes magnificently rude, What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, Where Freedom’s banner may be rear’d again: Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, The children of her sons inherit but their name. LIII.