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��As if scarce older than himself, Like sister by his side.

Yet, sometimes, when her tuneful voice Pour'd forth, at evening chime,

Those old Erse songs, the ancient breath Of an unconquer'd clime,

How from its oft beleaguer'd shore

The Danish sea-kings fled, Or some stout chieftain cleft in twain

The fierce usurper's head,

She, starting, mark'd his kindled eye,

With warrior's fire elate, And bade the aspiring boy beware His slaughter'd father's fate.

The war-cry rose, 'gainst Albion's power,

Sprang forth a hostile train, High blood was up, rash swords were out,

In conflict sharp and vain.

Then lonely Nora wept 'and pray'd,

Ere dawn's advancing light, And watch 'd until the sun sank down

Behind the empurpled height.

�� �