XIII.

But there was silence one bright, golden day, Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone, In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, And from the fields the peasant’s voice was gone; And the red grapes untrodden strew’d the ground; And the free flocks, untended, roam’d around. Where was the pastor?--where the pipe’s wild tone? Music and mirth were hush’d the hills among, While to the city’s gates each hamlet pour’d its throng.