Chapter 68 BATTLE SONG

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark;

What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the cock crows-hark!

To arms! away!

They come! they come! the knell is rung

Of us or them;

Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung

Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway,

To famine dear,

What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads