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 Like wolf that dashes through the toil. Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James’s throat he sprung; Received, but wrecked not of a wound, And locked his arms the foeman round.— Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel!— They tug, they strain!—down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below.

Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly;

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat; at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery!

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven! Then rushed the steed to battle driven! And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery!

But redder yet the sun shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow;