“But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou
In glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears:
E’en from the land of shadows now
My father’s awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry the last—the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi’s soul;
Because I may not stain with grief