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Oh, how can breath, and light, and bloom, Herald a day of death and doom! With knightly pennons, which were spread Like mirror's for the morning's red, Gather the ranks, while shout and horn Are o'er the distant mountains borne.

'Twas a fair sight, that arm'd array Winding through the deep vale their way, Helmet and breast-plate gleaming in gold, Banners waving their crimson fold, Like clouds of the day-break: hark to the peal Of the war-cry, answer'd by clanging steel! The young chief strokes his courser's neck, The ire himself had provoked to check,