The banner waving in the glowing breeze,
The trumpet sound, the shout.
Oh! there is nought so beautiful as this.
Rivers. Aye, but to see the living and the dead,
Lying in mortal agony, side by side,
Their bright hair dabbled in unrighteous blood,
Their vestures tinctured with its gory red,
The quivering limb, the eye that's glazed in death,
The groan—
Evadne. 'Tis lost boy, in the drum and trumpet's voice.