Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red,
But fate befriended still his guilty head.
Ay, let him come—my band, in one short hour,
Shall equal his, whate’er may be his power,
For long before these hills shall hail the dawn,
Five hundred blades shall glance on Elva’s lawn;
Even now, methinks, the bugles faint I hear,
Which warn their leader that his troops draw near.
But thou, my gentle love, thou ill may’st brook
On scenes of battle and of blood to look!