Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/323

Rh

Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing. Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!* I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not! Oh, my lovely! my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from Heaven's light, for it smiles on your grave!†