That threatens now to burst? What? Is their leader dead?
And is he borne away, who all our bosoms warmed?
He fell,—there lies his sword,—there lie his shield and helm.
What sorrows overwhelm
The conqueror disarmed!
Oh, no! He wakes again from night,—he waves his hand,
Beckoning to the brave ranks that mourning round him stand:
“My brother!” cried he—“Heaven! And is my brother gone?
Their sails unfurl! My friends, oh, see! oh, see! They fly,—
On,—‘Death or vengeance!’ cry,