Thy Voice Is Heard Thro' Rolling Drums, That Beat To Battle Where He Stands; Thy Face Across His Fancy Comes, And Gives The Battle To His Hands: A Moment, While The Trumpets Blow, He Sees His Brood About Thy Knee; The Next, Like Fire He Meets The Foe, And Strikes Him Dead For Thine And Thee.
No favourite Poem yet! Login To View And Add to Favourites



