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 No sleep till morn when youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—

But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! it is!—it is! the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a widow'd niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

rush'd into the field; and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?