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Thro' the dim olives their sabres shine;— Now must the red blood stream for wine!

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; Under the golden-fruited boughs There were flashing poniards, and darkening brows, Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled; And the dying soon on a greensward bed.

Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!— She saw but Ianthis before her lie, With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo, And a gathering film in his lifted eye, That sought his young bride out mournfully.— She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, As if the passion of that fond grasp Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.