Our bugles sang truce - for the night-cloud had lowered, / And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.
Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh what were man?—a world without a sun.
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, / That never mused on sorrow but its own.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound / Cries, `Boatman, do not tarry! / And I'll give thee a silver pound / To row us o'er the ferry.'
While memory watches o'er the sad reviewOf joys that faded like the morning dew.
Another's sword has laid him low, Another's and another's;And every hand that dealt the blow,Ah me! it was his brother's!
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave---oh! leave the light of Hope behind.
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, / Who rush to glory, or the grave! / Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, / And charge with all thy chivalry!
What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been, / Like angel-visits, few and far between?
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