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Was it the hunter's choral strain To the woodland-goddess pour'd? Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane Strike the full sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream, Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain echoes of the land Swell'd through the deep blue sky, While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die.

They marched not with the trumpet's blast, Nor bade the horn peal out, And the laurel-groves, as on they passed, Rung with no battle shout!