See’st thou the stormy sunset’s glow
Flung back by glancing spears below?
Now for one strife of stern despair!
The foe hath track’d thee to thy lair.
Thou, against whom the voice of blood
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood;
And in whose dreams a moan should be,
Not of the water, nor the tree;
Haply thine own last hour is nigh,—
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die.