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Rh The forest-leaves lay scattered cold and dead, Upon the withered grass that autumn morn,
 * When, with as widowed hearts
 * And hopes as dead and cold,

A gallant army formed their last array Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom,
 * And at their conqueror’s feet
 * Laid their war-weapons down.

Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonored; Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there:
 * The soldier’s trial-task
 * Is not alone “to die.”

Honor to chivalry! the conqueror’s breath Stains not the ermine of his foeman’s fame,
 * Nor mocks his captive’s doom—
 * The bitterest cup of war.

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all Whose swords are lightning-flashes in the cloud
 * Of the Invader’s wrath,
 * Threatening a gallant land!

His armies’ trumpet-tones wake not alone Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand hills
 * Her answering voices shout,
 * And her bells ring to arms!