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Go ye, who will, and crowd the chieftain's hall, And deal the feast, and nod your grizzled heads To martial pibrochs, play'd, in better days, To those who conquer'd, not who woo'd their foes; My soul abhors it.—On the sea-beaten rock, Remov'd from ev'ry form and sound of man; In proud communion with the fitful winds Which speak, with many tongues, the fancied words Of those who long in silent dust have slept; While eagles scream, and sullen surges roar— The boding sounds of ill;—I'll hold my feast,— My moody revelry.

Nay, why so fierce? Think'st thou we are a tame and mongrel pack? Dogs of true breed we are, though for a time Our master-hound forsakes us.—Rouse him forth The noble chace to lead: his deep-toned yell Full well we know; and for the opening sport Pant keenly.

Ha! is there amongst you still Spirit enough for this?

Yes, when good opportunity shall favour.