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They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come! Woe for the mountain hearth and home! There, where the hunter laid by his spear. There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep, Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!"

Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild! Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, As if at a glance of thine armed sire? —Still!—be thou still!—there are brave men low— Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou seem him now!"