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a sound o'er hill and plain, It doth not pass away. Is it the valleys that ring forth Their welcome to the day? Or is it that the lofty woods, Touch'd by the morn, rejoice? No, 'tis another sound than these,— It is the battle's voice. I see the martial ranks, I see Their banners floating there, And plume and spear rise meteor like Upon the reddening air. One mark'd I most of all,—he was Mine own familiar friend;