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Rh

The quiet glen is left behind, The dark wood lost in the blue sky; When other sounds come on the wind, And other pennons float on high. With snow-white plumes and glancing crest, And standard raised, and spear in rest, On a small river's farther banks Wait their approach Sir ranks.— One silent gaze, as if each band Could slaughter both with eye and hand. Then peals the war-cry! then the dash Amid the waters! and the crash Of spears,—the falchion's iron ring,— The arrow hissing from the string, Tell they have met. Thus from the height The torrent rushes in its might.