The bridal of Vaumond :: :: University of Virginia Library

They fall—that magic host—in death,
They draw, like man, a fleeting breath;
They bleed,—and fiercer strife awoke
When the red torrents round them broke.
Prest by the rush, when first was heard
The bugle note, the battle word,
Mid flying serf and troop of horse,
All vainly there the refluent course
Strove Lodowick to brave;—
Yet he saw his foeman's sable plume,
The battle-star of wrath and doom,
Upon the breezes wave;
Yet he heard his foeman's clarion shrill
That woke the voice of every hill,
In their wild echo maddening still,
Its tones of fury pour—

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As if every fiend exultant lent
His breath to swell the notes it sent
Like their own deep'ning roar!