He stood where the mountain moss outspread Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot；

    The chestnut boughs above his head, Hung motionless and mute.

    There came not a voice from the wooded hill, Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will

    And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, The night-bird's mournful cry. Deep silence hung round him； the misty light Of the young moon silvered the brow of Night, Whose quiet spirit had flung her spell O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, And breathed on the air, till its gentle swell Arose on the ear like some loved one's call； And the wide blue sky spread over all Its starry canopy. And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, Whose grave could not give him rest； So deep was the settled hue of grief, On his manly front impressed：

    Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, And his port was erect and high, Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain, As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, When his men have failed in fight； Who rather a thousand deaths would die, Than his fame should suffer blight.