Nor deem thy lover weak—this peril past,
On different scenes thine eyes thou soon shall cast,
For in these wars my hand shall carve a name
Whose sheen shall dim my sires’ ancestral fame—
Enduring as the stars—and thou shall be,
First in a land where every heart is free—”
Quick he breaks off—for glancing through the trees,
Rank after rank of bayonets bright he sees.
“Clara! they come—the blood-hounds would not wait
The morning light, so eager burns their hate;