 | Poems |  |
While on the breeze those notes were borne,
The misty clouds of coming morn,
Tinged faintly with its rays at first,
Then reddening as the sunbeams burst,
Melted from the azure sky,
As rose the glorious orb on high.
He rose—and ere again he set,
Many a blade in blood was wet.
Ere his daily race was run,
Freedom's fight was fought and won.
In that camp, where mirth had been,
Fire and massacre were seen;
Where those festive shouts were heard,
Clashed the Saxon's vengeful sword;
Where the wine-cup redly glowed,
There the blood of the revellers flowed.
The misty clouds of coming morn,
Tinged faintly with its rays at first,
Then reddening as the sunbeams burst,
Melted from the azure sky,
As rose the glorious orb on high.
18
Many a blade in blood was wet.
Ere his daily race was run,
Freedom's fight was fought and won.
In that camp, where mirth had been,
Fire and massacre were seen;
Where those festive shouts were heard,
Clashed the Saxon's vengeful sword;
Where the wine-cup redly glowed,
There the blood of the revellers flowed.
| Poems | |