The sound of battle lingers still,—
But faint it comes, for every blow
Is feebled with the touch of woe:
Their limbs are weary, and forget
They stand upon the battle plain,—
But still their spirit flashes yet,
And dimly lights their souls again!
Like revellers, flush'd with dead'ning wine,
Measuring the dance with sluggish tread,
Their spirits for an instant shine,