And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.
XX.
Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhung
The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,
Told legible that midnight of despair.
She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,—
As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.
One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care—
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?