Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes.
For the bloody fight had not been won
Till drooped to the west the slanting sun,
And his golden beams a bright glory shed
Around each dying hero’s head,
And lighted his soul with a cheering ray,
E’er his dim eye closed on the parting day.
But Findhorn’s dark heights, and his wizzard wave,
Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays,
Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave,