He stood where the mountain moss¹ outspread Its smoothness beneath his dusky foot；

    The chestnut² boughs³ 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 plaintive⁴ 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 misty⁵ 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 swell⁶ Arose on the ear like some loved one's call； And the wide blue sky spread over all Its starry⁷ canopy⁸. And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, Whose grave could not give him rest； So deep was the settled hue⁹ of grief, On his manly¹⁰ front impressed：

    Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain¹¹, And his port was erect¹² and high, Like the lips of a martyr¹³ 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 blight¹⁴.