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.