our bugles sang truce for the night cloud had lowerd
and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky
and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
the weary to sleep and the wounded to die ...
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
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