Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,
Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deep
Rush on their helpless prey, which seems to dread
Far, far too much to fly.
Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,
With whom I left my distant mountain-home,
Come, come to me. Alas! no single word
I speak will ever by your ears be heard,
Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,
Salute your victory.