The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry! - Thomas Campbell

With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heav'nly light, That pours remotest rapture on the sight: Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way. That calls each slumb'ring passion into play.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

What potent spirit guides the raptur'd eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heav'nly pow'r, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man— Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or, if she hold an image to the view, Tis nature pictur'd too severely true.