"We win,—let not my soldiers see their Leader fall."
Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast,—
When hark! "They run; see how they run!" they cry.
"Who run?" "The foe." His eyes flash forth one gleam,
Then murmuring low he sighs, "Praise God, in peace I die."
VI
Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead,
As when a cyclone through the forest cleaves;—
And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain,
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.