Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/100

But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone,
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan;
And his soul was pierc'd by a mournful eye,
Which look'd on it—oh! how beseechingly!
And there floated past him a fragile form,
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm;
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove
In vain with its burden of helpless love!
—Thus woke the dreamer one weary night—
There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong light;
He sprang up—he climb'd to the grating-bars,
—It was not the rising of moon or stars,
But a signal flame from a peak of snow,
Rock'd through the dark skies, to and fro!
There shot forth another—another still—
A hundred answers of hill to hill!
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way,
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play,
And each is hail'd with a pealing shout,
For the high Alps waving their banners out!