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Thou'rt silent!—See'st thou more?—My soul grows dark.

And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, Dashing some gallant armament in scorn Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze! —I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd, And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms To lighten with the stroke!—But round the spot, Where, like a storm-fell'd mast, our standard sank, The heart of battle burns.

Where is that spot ?

It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, In calm and stately grace.

There, didst thou say? Then God is with us, and we must prevail! For on that spot they died!—My children's blood Calls on th' avenger thence!

They perish'd there!