And the red cross on my breast;
I, the Guardian of this Land,[136]
Speak not now of toilsome duty;
Well obeyed was that command—
Whence bright days of festive beauty;[137]
Haste, Virgins, haste!—the flowers which summer gave
Have perished in the field;
But the green thickets plenteously shall yield[138]
Fit garlands for the brave,
That will be welcome, if by you entwined;