“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”
Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears
That o’er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er,
Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!”
“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!
It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d.