We went by ways of bygone days,
Up mountain heights of story,
Where, lost in vague, historic haze,
Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,
Sat ’mid her ruins hoary.
Where, wing to wing, the eagles cling
And torrents have their sources,
War rose with bugle voice to sing
Of woods of spears and swords a-swing,
And rush of men and horses.
Then deep below, where orchards show
A home here, there a steeple,
We heard a simple shepherd go,
Singing,—within the afterglow,—
A love-song of the people.
As ’mid the trees his song did cease,
With voice most sweet and holy,
Peace,—’mid the cornlands of increase
And rose-beds of love’s victories,—
Took up his music lowly.