At every leaf that rustles in the breeze
Starting, he grasps his sword; and every nerve
Is ready strain'd, for combat or for flight.
Thus list'ning to ward off approaching foes,
A distant whispering, fighting, murmuring sound
Salutes his ear, and to his throbbing heart
Soft tidings tells of tenderness and love.
For on that fatal day of vengeful ire.
At fearful distance following the host,
From either country came a female throng;