We warred in happy songs; but hers was best.
IX.
Thou art not mine as I am thine:
As great, or greater, is thy love;
But loftier thoughts above thee shine,
And lordlier aims before thee move.
The hand now clasping mine—that hand
Let drop this hand to grasp the sword;
It hurled in ruin from our land
The impostor Prophet's sons abhorred.