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Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge Faint swelling thro' the streets. Then e'en the air Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, As if the viewless watchers of the land Sigh'd on its hollow breezes!—To my soul, The torrent-rush of battle, with its din Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, As the free sky's glad music unto him Who leaves a couch of sickness.

If to plunge In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows; If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, Lightly might fame be won!—but there are things Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, And courage temper'd with a holier fire! Well mayst thou say, that these are fearful times,