Classic Poem

The rock that beetling from thy bosom bears
The last red light of Heaven upon its brow
And wreathes the ivy's verdant growth of years
Around its rugged front is lovely now,
Tinged with the parting twilight's purple glow;
The river monarch, in rich robes arrayed,
Gazing upon the azure tide below;
And silver wavelets, their last homage paid,
Sink at his feet to rest, yet murmuring half afraid.

And legend links with yonder dizzy height
A tale of terror of the olden days;
There where the eagle pauses from his flight,
And where the mountain goat might scarcely graze,
A band had gathered, as tradition says,
In battle vanquished, by their foemen pressed;
There with their dark eyes flashing glorious rays,
Each mantle rent, and soiled each stately crest,
They stood with burning thoughts, yet stern and stirless breast.

What hope for them! 'Twere all in vain to yield,
The stake's the mercy that the victor shows;
Before them lay their last dread battle-field,
Around, in front, in narrowing circle, close
The vengeful faces of outnumbering foes;
Behind, in mighty masses of bleak stone
Barring all flight, the precipice arose—
There came a shout—ere echo caught the tone,
A rush, a gurgling cry—and the brave band was gone!