She bids thee seek the fields of Death:
Go, Alwin, rush amid the foe;
Go, and return with Vict’ry’s wreath!”
A thrilling blast the trumpet blew;
The milk-white courser paw’d the ground:
A mix’d delight young Alwin knew;
While Rena shudder’d at the sound—
Yet strove to check the rising fears,
Which now with double fury swell;
And, faintly smiling thro’ her tears,