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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 woman mingled with your warrior-band.
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood^23[1]
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.