Hard upon that flying host

Presses, with avenging spear

Flashing on their scattered rear:

Nor can hills of slaughter tire

The pursuer's burning ire;

Still along the hills are poured

Shouts of "Gideon and the Lord."

Morning spread her wings of light

O'er the sable couch of night:

Back the shades of darkness rolled,

Glowed the purple east with gold,

And the young day's rosy glance

Gleamed on broken helm and lance,

Ere the fearful chase was won,

Ere the fierce pursuit was done,

Or the slayer staid his hand,

Or the warrior sheathed his brand,

[Pg 51]

Or rested from the sanguine toil,

Or paused to share the princely spoil,

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